


Soft Addictions

by annhellsing



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Budding Romance, Drunk Cuddles, Drunkenness, Exiled!Alistair, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hangover, Neglect Mentions, child abuse mentions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-25 22:33:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20379208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annhellsing/pseuds/annhellsing
Summary: In which Alistair is judged and found wanting by so many that he's thoroughly surprised by an outlier.





	Soft Addictions

**Author's Note:**

> some sad alistair fluff because he deserves that shit lbr here

It’s funny, maybe. Hopefully. 

He’s so eager to assert, now, that he once mattered. He’ll stand before a whole manner of drunken brute (often just as drunk himself) and swear before the Maker that he was a prince of Ferelden.

Didn’t matter if he didn’t want it when he had it. 

Things are different, he clings to anything that could pass as identity. He’s not a Grey Warden anymore, not a lover or a fighter. But he’s still alive. Maybe that’s why he shouts so much, it’s just like the Chantry.

He’s still here, he’s still breathing. 

Alistair only wants to be remembered when he’s certain no one cares. Or at least he finds himself desperate for approval when it’s sure to be a difficult fight. He misses his guts, his old ability to stare disappointment dead in the eye, rear back and spit. 

Of course, when he could do that it was because he had friends. He had loves, hates and acquaintances to remind him of what he’s trying so hard to communicate now. He’s real. He’s worth caring about. Isn’t he?

He drinks mead until his tongue goes numb, until he can’t separate the sweetness of honey from the tang of yeast. It doesn’t make things any easier, but it’s harder to grapple with unwanted emotions when they go all fuzzy. 

It’s harder to identify some flaw within himself as the malignant cause of his every ill. Because it’s so easy to find when he’s clear in the head. The drink doesn’t keep his insides from falling out (he was always one to wear his heart outside his chest), but it stops Alistair from tearing them out with his own hands. 

He doesn’t want any company, actively spurns it. It would be atrocious to be liked, now, despite the attention he begs of strangers. The ones who talk with him are only there to mock, anyway. To distract him with allegories they don’t understand and advice that has no meaning. 

But you don’t lay a finger on him. Your hand stays by your side, not encroaching at his shoulder. You don’t pass him a coin and whisper that he should go home, it’s getting very late.

It is very late when you sit at his table, crossing one leg over the other like you intend to stay. Your pretty head tilts to the side as if investigating his ruin.

“And what do you want?” he slurs, all his words run together into a monstrosity of a phrase. Careful as a magpie, you pick through them and separate what he says into sense. 

“You’re new,” you try, “thought I’d come say hello.” 

“Not new any more,” Alistair grumbles, slowing his speech enough that an interpreter is no longer needed. His elbows rest on the tabletop, he leans towards you like he wants to be found threatening. He isn’t, but you stay in your chair and move no further. 

“It’s been a bit since I came around,” you reply, “you’re news to me. How long have you been in Kirkwall?” 

Alistair says something that might be “What’s it to you, hm?” but you can’t be sure about that. Your expression, showing neither disgust nor admiration. You look at him like he’s human, worth the time it takes see him.

“You look interesting,” the barest hint of a smile dances on your mouth Alistair’s eyes follow it in a haze. If you notice, you say nothing. 

He notices, dimly, the lack of past-tense. And the even touchy, touchy ex-prince can’t find in your voice an insult to exploit. There is no reason to be cross with himself, disguised as being cross with you. 

“Well, I’d be worried about your judgement if I were you,” he says and his interest returns quickly to the dwindling contents in his mug. To his great surprise, there’s a laugh from your general direction while he glances elsewhere. 

“No, I don’t think so,” you tell him with a strange honesty. You have thought about it, haven’t you? “How about your name, can you tell me that?” 

“Alistair,” he says after a pause. He tells himself he doesn’t know why he’s so reluctant to make eye contact again. 

In truth, it’s because he hasn’t been looked at like that in a long while. It isn’t lust, Isabela reacquainted him with that. But it isn’t malice either, nor humour. It’s curiosity, he identifies with a lurching feeling in his chest. Human curiosity, a desire to know and be known by a miserable stranger.

You hum like you like the sound of his name, it’s a tuneless sound. Your smile returns tenfold, beaming bright as you tell him yours. He’s ashamed at how much happiness something so small can bring you. You have to be teasing him, this has to be some, big joke. 

Oh, who cares, he thinks. Pull the wool over my eyes one more time. Who’s counting? 

“What’s your story, Alistair?” you say his name with a certain reverence, it gives him a slight chill up his spine. You speak it like you’ve rarely had the chance to hold something so important on the bed of your tongue. 

He shrugs heavily, lifting his hands and leaning away from you. Alistair gestures broadly at the other patrons before reclining in his seat. 

“Why don’t you ask them? Maker knows they’re tired of hearing about it,” he says. Immediately, he’s seized by the urge to apologize as the smile leaves his face. 

“Oh,” you sigh, “I was hoping you might tell me, seeing as it’s your tale.” 

Alistair looks at you, trying to peer through the fog that drink shoves him bodily into. You seem genuine, maybe, and he’s already committed to believing whatever game you’re playing. He could be nice, he supposes. He’s been kinder to fouler creatures. 

“Have you ever been to Ferelden?” he starts. It’s a beat before you shake your head. “All right, I suppose we’ll have to start from the very beginning.” 

It’s kind of a long story, but you make barely a shift in your seat. Your eyes don’t wander from his melancholic expression and gesturing hands. His voice breaks more than once, he’s too drunk to care. It’s strangely detailed in some places, Alistair’s tale, but vague in others. You imagine it has quite a bit to do with the small collection of empty tankards at his elbow. 

“She just—” you interrupt him near the tail end of the story, before the broken chapter taking place in Kirkwall. You reach out, almost on an impulse and cover his warm hand with yours. “She just let you leave like that?” 

“I didn’t give her much of a choice,” Alistair replies, “there was no stopping me.” 

“I don’t blame you,” you say, “not even in the slightest. I can’t imagine—”

“Don’t,” he cuts you off, “don’t imagine it, please.” 

“I’m sorry, Alistair,” you tell him, “both for that and for being an impolite listener. I’ll stop talking.” 

“You don’t have to,” he replies. That curious tilt of the head comes back, he’s reminded of a quizzical hound. He’d never tell you that, of course, but he means it nicely. “I don’t think that you’re—”

“That I’m what?” you ask when he stops himself from speaking, seemingly for good. 

“It’s just,” he starts and searches for the words, “if you were going to give me terrible advice or pity, you would’ve done it by now. So you don’t have to stop talking.” 

“I don’t pity you,” you say, “not in the slightest. I’m sorry, very sorry, but only because you don’t deserve what’s happened.” 

“I know I don’t,” he replies, leaning forward again. Alistair looks long and hard at your palm covering the back of his hand, he decides not to pull away. “Things were supposed to be different.” 

“That’s how everyone ends up in Kirkwall,” you tell him. There’s the barest hint of humour returning to your tone, he latches on to it. 

“Even you?” he asks, finally looking away from your hand. You grin at him, looking almost sheepish. “What about where you come from?” 

“You’re looking at it,” you reply, casting the first glance since you sat down with him at the bar around you. 

The other patrons stared for the first five minutes at the joke in the corner having a conversation with a woman from Lowtown. They soon lost interest with the otherwise uninteresting sight. You’re nothing special, just like him. You’re nobody. 

“You were born here?” Alistair asks, you nod. 

“Not here, specifically,” you clarify with another laugh, “but in Kirkwall, yes. Been here my whole life.” 

“If I’ve said anything to offend—” he starts, sounding uncertain of his words. Your hand squeezes his, the act of touch so familiar yet unspeakably fond that it could steal his breath. 

“You haven’t said anything untrue,” you smile at him. He feels a pull to smile back, but he doesn’t give in to it. 

Alistair’s not sure he’s fond of smiles any more. There was a time he craved them, of course, from the right people but they’ve all gone and left. It’s a little embarrassing, upon reflection, how much stock he’s put into making people happy. None of them ever did much in return. 

Except a few. There were a few. He looks at you again to try and suffocate the part of him that wants to remember how it was. Now is not the time. 

You seem to notice that shift. He’s been miserable this whole conversation, but now he’s worrying you. You give his hand another squeeze, prompting him to finally to pull away. 

“I think I’ve had enough conversation for tonight,” he says. Yes, it’s sudden, he was just about to find out all of your awful secrets. Or maybe not. But this is too familiar, too comfortably close to what he’s lost. 

You look hurt, but only for a second. Your hand stays where it was, holding his for a moment like you’re not sure what to do now that your compassion has been denied. Finally, it’s retracted and you drop your eyes. He’s embarrassed you, he realizes, and it’s like looking in a mirror. 

Alistair pushes you to make yourself scarce. You bid him an otherwise kind goodbye, however, and you leave the Hanged Man before he can summon up the courage to change his mind. 

He misses having someone to talk to the moment you’re gone, he realizes. Or maybe he just misses you. 

Others certainly don’t look at him the same way, it’s an icy reminder of all he was trying to do before you sat down. He wants respect, craves it like a child who’s never known it. But all his exclamations attract is the ire of strangers.

There was a time he would’ve fought in the abstract sense for everyone in the room. He would’ve died for all of them and all for a greater good. But the danger’s passed. There is no more Blight, no more need for him or his foolish heroism. There’s no need for optimism. 

He rather wishes he hadn’t sent you away. You were nice. 

The hours all bleed together after a while. There’s sun all morning, though he’s not awake for it, and rain into the evening. Lightning strikes illuminate the dark corners in the Hanged Man. There’s the clear sound of a downpour every time the door’s opened, until it’s closed again and the sound is muffled. 

Alistair’s chasing a headache away with more to drink, avoiding the eye contact that he now understands to be pitiable at best. He can’t bring himself to risk being loathed long enough to stare back at anyone. 

He’s used to the cycle of patrons entering, hardly notices anyone entering until he’s no longer alone. There isn’t any chance for him to be unkind, as Alistair lifts his head to tell his table-mate off, he’s confronted by a familiar face. 

It’s been less than twenty-four hours. You’re back. 

“Couldn’t get enough of me?” he asks, sounding thankfully less drunk than the night before. Though the hour’s still earlier, notably. 

“That’s right,” you say, you’re already smiling at him and he doesn’t loathe the sight. Joy. 

You lift a hand, gesturing for the barmaid to bring you a drink of your own. Perfect, Alistair thinks, we’ll have a party. But you offer him none of the gold in your purse to exchange for a full tankard. You don’t pay for him, clever girl. 

“I enjoyed talking to you last night,” you tell him, “like I said, I don’t come here much. But I do when I’ve got friends.” 

Alistair has to physically restrain himself from barking that he hasn’t got any friends. He stares at you, slightly slack-jawed before lifting an eyebrow and pausing to gulp down what’s left of his second drink. 

You sip on yours, clearly in no rush to get anywhere. 

“Suppose there’s worse here to chat with,” Alistair replies, sounding nearer to grateful than he’d like. You nod and look at tonight’s clientele. No one you know. 

“I’ll try to keep the conversation lighter than yesterday’s,” you smirk, but there’s a hint of self-conscious truth that even foul-tempered Alistair cannot abide. 

“You didn’t say anything wrong,” he replies. You look momentarily stunned, he doesn’t hate being stared at like that. He moves to clarify. “Last night, I mean. It wasn’t your fault.” 

“I upset you,” you say, “I’ll try not to from now on.”

“Please,” Alistair shakes his head, delighting in the chance to scoff at nonsense that isn’t his making. “Everything upsets me these days.” 

“I’m sorry,” you tell him again. But it doesn’t seem to be an admission of guilt. He’ll allow it. 

“Yes, yes, you’re very sweet,” you drawls, searching to make certain that the mugs at his elbow are good and empty before ordering another. “Drink, why don’t you? Let’s not bring the room down.” 

To your credit, you shake off uncertainty with ease. Unlike last night, there’s an absence of a wall, of a desire to show him you’re different. Now, Alistair knows you are. And it’s been some time since he had another to get properly sloshed with. 

There’s a small part of him that despises how easily he can make you happy. It calls to mind all the others he thought he was good enough for. But it isn’t as if he’s going to throw himself at your mercy because of a few, fun evenings. No, he’s learned his lesson in that respect. He’s learned to safeguard his emotions. 

You ask him about a whole manner of silly things, each less serious than the last. You want to know his favourite colour, the nicest dog he’s ever met. You want to know what he dreamed about as a child, if he has a preference for any of the constellations. 

It’s distracting, he realizes around drink four. By drink five, he doesn’t care. He’s just happy to talk about something other than birthrights and Wardens, in that order. 

Somewhere in the middle of your second drink, you pull your chair up next to his. It’s a step, yes, but not one he’s inclined to openly dislike. Quite the opposite. Being close to you the night before was uncharacteristically pleasant, now as you hover next to him it’s doubly so. 

You feel warm, your smile’s sweeter than the honey in the mead. It occurs to him that touch is something you find naturally easy to give, with the handholding evidence from night prior. This evening, you put a hand on his knee, you lean against his shoulder. 

He doesn’t have the heart to push you away, it’s too nice a feeling. To be wanted, truly wanted is not something he ever expected to be again. Alistair left home, left something ugly masquerading as love with the risk of never being needed again as an afterthought in his mind. But you latch on to him in a way that’s acceptably unlike what he’s had thus far. 

“Favourite food, I don’t know,” you prompt him, moving your hand from his knee and instead wrapping an arm around his middle. Your head comes to rest on his shoulder, but he doesn’t even flinch. 

“Are we playing twenty questions?” he asks. You laugh, the sound isn’t as horrible to his ears. 

“Yes,” you say, “I want to know you.” 

“You wouldn’t be the first,” he replies, “plenty of people used to want to know me very well.” 

“I don’t doubt it,” you tell him, “you’re very interesting.” 

“And you’re a flatterer,” Alistair looks down at you, he barely registers that he’s grinning back. It’s a very welcome sight, one that makes your heart flutter in your chest. You want to mention it, maybe take a little pride in it. 

“Guilty,” is all you say. Why spoil something sweet? 

The rest of the night ambles favourably along. You ask some things, learn very little, and eventually pitch yourself into cracking jokes. It seems to awaken something in him, something Alistair apparently forgot. 

You make him laugh once or twice, but he has you giggling until morning. Humour comes naturally to him, it’s probably best not to think too deeply about why. 

Might have something to do with that awful childhood he mentioned. Poor dear, it’s a wonder how he turned out so sweet. That grouchy, hurt inclination seems painfully at odds with how much he wants to trust you. It’s shockingly upsetting when you consider it for longer than a few seconds. 

So you don’t consider it at all. You laugh loudly, you drink with him. It’s better this way, he should have something like this. 

The tavern songs fall from your mouth so easily, your brain gives them up like it’s high tide. Singing’s the only thing to do when the conversation becomes difficult to follow. Alistair limps along, usually knowing the chorus and not much else. But you sing for him, maybe a little off-key with no complaints as to his performance. 

And you look at him, Maker, you look at him just like you did before. All curiosity and sweetness, all humanity and kindness. He’s interesting, he feels interesting sitting next to you, like he’s the only one in the room worth singing for. 

No one tries to bother him, at least. There are a few cursory glances towards the man in the corner who always has to make a scene, but he’s been distracted thusly by a woman. Any attempts to start fights or bait the fallen prince into an argument fall flat, he’s where he needs to be. 

Despite your singing and fascination with topics of little importance, it’s clear even to him that you’re the sober one. At least, by comparison, that is. And he’s fine with it, you hang on to him as the night transitions seamlessly to morning, laughing until your voice goes hoarse. 

It’s at his third yawn in a row that you consider it’s time for bed. But it’s difficult to search through the fuzzy feeling in your head in order to best communicate that. You stop him from beginning a new song, lifting your eyes and looking at him intensely. 

“We should go upstairs,” you tell him, “you sound sleepy.”

“What?” he asks. 

“Sleepy. You sound tired, you’ve been yawning for half an hour,” you reply. 

“Can’t be that late,” Alistair defends, wishing you’d drop your head down on his shoulder and have a rest if you’re so insistent. 

“More like can’t be that early, precious,” you smile at him. Alistair gives a glance at the window. 

“Still dark outside,” he notes, “hm, still raining.” 

“Yeah, but wouldn’t you like to have a lie-down before the sun rises?” you ask. You’ve got him there. 

“In answer to your question, I’m not sure how wise it would be to stand up,” he admits. A giggle erupts from you, you push your chair back and try your best. 

You being steady means very little to him, but you hold an arm out for him to take. 

“I’ll keep you safe,” you promise, “no falling up the stairs, I swear.” 

He’s inclined to believe you. And now that you’ve put the idea of a warm bed into his mind he’ll think of nothing else until he gets it. Alistair takes your hand, using the table for balance and walking with you to the stairs. 

Alistair stumbles more than he’d like, it’s necessary for you to grab him by the waist and throw your weight in the opposite direction of the way he moves. But you don’t seem to mind, even as you reach the stairs. It’s harder to climb upward than it is to walk on flat ground, still, you manage. 

“Which room?” you ask, Alistair gestures vaguely to the door at the end of the hall. You meander towards it, pausing only to check on him. He doesn’t look too green in the face, at least. 

“Are—” he starts as the door gets closer, “are you staying?” 

“No,” you reply, “you need sleep, dear, not a bedfellow.” 

“Right,” Alistair says. He sounds more relieved than anything. “Really, I’m not that kind of man.” 

“Of course you’re not,” you tell him, sounding certain. 

“Isabela and I—” he cuts himself off again, “do you know Isabela? The pirate?” 

“Never heard of her,” you smile, glad that you two’ve wandered close to the wall. If anything happens, you have something to fall against. 

“Oh, well, like I said,” he sounds nearly sheepish again, colour you interested. “I’m not the type to invite strange women around. Usually, anyway.” 

“Is it the Chantry boy in you that denies all propositions?” you joke at him, reaching for the door handle and prying it open. Alistair laughs loudly in your ear. 

“I was taught to put a bit of value on things like that,” he sighs, “pity no one else was.” 

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” you help him to the bed, sitting him down on the edge and making sure he’s steady. 

Alistair looks up at you, a little unfocused but so clearly lost. Your heart hurts just looking at him, you watch him fight with himself. He wants to take it back, ask you to stay all night so he might have someone to giggle with. Nothing more, nothing less. 

It’s painful, he’s trying to find a loophole in his morals that will allow him to spend the rest of the dwindling morning with someone he could call friend. He doesn’t seem to find a way. 

You lean in, nevertheless, pressing your warm lips to his forehead. He can’t remember the last time he was kissed like that, maybe he just doesn’t want to. Regardless, it communicates what it needs to. 

“Goodnight, Alistair,” you tell him. He nods, moving to lie back on the bed with his clothes still on. He feels a hand brush through his hair before you leave. Then, he’s alone. 

His door opens after a few hours of dreamless sleep, of course it does. Alistair’s not one to wake easily, but the noise is disruptive enough to rouse him. He peers through the shadows and his new headache to the source of light cast into the room. 

It’s you, who else would it be? 

“Couldn’t stay away?” he asks, but even talking sends a sharp pain through his head. His eyes hurt when he looks at the light for two long. Alistair gives a groan of complaint before stuffing his head back under the pillow. 

“I came to check up on you,” you tell him, “it’s a nurse’s impulse.” 

“You’re a nurse?” his voice is muffled under the pillow, you laugh like you’re forcing yourself to be quiet. The door closes softly behind you and the room’s mostly shadow again. 

“In Darktown, yes,” you tell him, “I should take you by the clinic some time.” 

“Whatever you say,” Alistair sounds miserable again, newly upset by the symptoms of a terrible hangover. Waking up was an awful idea. 

“I brought you something for the headache,” you say. It’s taken him until right now to realize you’re whispering. He stirs from under pillow and looks at your shadow walking to the edge of the bed. 

There’s no light, no way to define you as his eyes readjust. You sit, pulling from your pocket a small bottle. It’s held out to him and Alistair hesitantly takes it. 

“Are you trying to poison me?” he asks, but it’s well-meant. You stifle a laugh again, shaking your head. 

“No, though I’d be a terrible assassin if I told you I was,” you whisper. 

“Sounds like something an assassin would say,” Alistair grumbles. But he seems not to care very much, he uncorks the bottle and drinks its contents. 

“It should dull the pain a little in about ten minutes,” you tell him. “Do you need anything else? Some water, or—”

“You mind staying for a bit?” Alistair asks. You’re stunned to silence. “Don’t have to, I’ve just,” he pauses to heave a sigh that flares his still-strong headache. “Company’s nice, I think I’d forgotten that.” 

“Of course I can stay,” you tell him. He visibly brightens. “Make a bit of room for me, now,” you continue. You move around the bed, sitting beside him until you’re leaning against the headboard. 

You sit on top of the half-made blankets, Alistair’s still lying underneath them. You touch his cheek, just briefly in greeting before folding your hands in your lap. 

“Did you sleep well?” you ask him. 

“Like the dead, no dreams,” he replies. You cock your head to the side again. 

“Do you often dream?” he seems reluctant to answer. 

“Sometimes,” his eyes drop to your lap, to your folded hands. “Though the subject often isn’t very nice.” 

“Try me,” you mumble. Clearly, he wants to tell someone. He keeps looking at your hands, you reach out and put one on his shoulder. It’s not like the pitiable, detestable gesture he’s used to. Alistair sighs. 

“Darkspawn hoards,” he says. His voice drops low like he doesn’t want to hear it himself. “Part of still being a Grey Warden, even out here.” 

“Oh, Alistair,” you sigh. Your arm loops around him, hugging him to your side. He allows it, you feel warm and sturdy. He puts his head on your shoulder how you did on his the night before. 

“It was easier when I wasn’t alone with it,” he admits, “used to be a whole, little family of us. True, I didn’t know them for very long, but I had someone who understood.” 

“It’s all right,” you start. Alistair cuts you off very purposefully. 

“Not to sound ungrateful,” he adds. 

“You don’t,” you assure him, “quite the opposite. I’m happy I’m as trusted as your family.” 

“Well, it’s slim pickings, now,” he sighs heavily. But he freezes, bodily, when you turn your eyes towards him and kiss the top of his head. 

“Then I’m very lucky I was picked,” you assert. He goes quiet for a moment after that. 

“You’ve been nice to me,” he says, “why?” 

“Trust me, Alistair,” you say, “if you could see it like I do, you’d understand.” 

“See it how?” he asks.

“Kirkwall sucks people dry, from Darktown up. I hate to see it succeed,” you reply.

“Not many like you around here, are there?” he continues. You give a shrug of your unoccupied shoulder. He feels fingers combing through his hair again, the sensation is one he thought he’d lost months ago. 

“More than you think, precious,” you tell him, “but Kirkwall’s a mean, old city.” 

“I hadn’t noticed,” Alistair jokes. He didn’t think it would earn him another, careful kiss to the crown of his head, but it does. 

“Let me know if I’m laying it on a bit thick,” you say, “you just looked so lonely down there.”

“And up here, I suspect,” whatever he drank’s beginning to work, but he’s not about to tell you so. He’d be running the risk of kissing this kind of sweetness goodbye, Alistair can’t have that. “Lay it on as thick as you’d like.” 

There’s another kiss, he can feel your steady heartbeat drumming away in your jugular. 

He matches your deep breaths without really noticing he’s doing it. His chest rises and falls with yours, his eyes slip shut when the conversation wanes. Still, you don’t move, nor do you let him go. 

It occurs to him you might not leave until he wants it, just like two nights ago. He could have kindness with a bit of stability, of certainty. If he asked, you’d likely kiss his forehead again and think with no secrecy at all that he’s earned this. Alistair doesn’t want to consider you might be wrong, he sinks against your shoulder and lets this brand of gentleness become momentarily normal. 

Hold me like this long enough and I’ll want the clouds, he thinks. Alistair’s smile is silent and goes unnoticed in the dark.


End file.
